


(misc drabble) violet smoke

by Darkling_Moth



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: imminent sledding, melancholic smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-18 03:15:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5895988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkling_Moth/pseuds/Darkling_Moth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>uneventful drabble in which Matthew finds himself in the midst of random introspection, novel-gazing</p>
            </blockquote>





	(misc drabble) violet smoke

**Author's Note:**

> just a mindless drabble warm-up exercise that may or may not evolve into Other Things

Violet eyes peer through a velvet haze of smoke, squinting to cull meaning from the quickly drying ink.   
A cough in the doorway then warm arms about him. Stark contrast to the landscape of snow capped trees and peaks disappearing into clouds on the horizon.   
Matthew leans back and sighs into the embrace, squinting now at the view instead of the page but still seeing the words as if they were carved into the sky.  
Alfred has withdrawn one arm to stub out the forgotten cigarette burning on the tea saucer beside Matthew. Doesn’t matter. It was mostly gone anyway.   
“You shouldn’t smoke so much,” contrary to the words, Alfred’s tone is an apology. They’ve been together long enough that Matthew knows this so he doesn’t berate his lover.  
Alfred, however, is not so attuned to the nuances of his partner, so when Matthew says nothing he interprets the silence as disregard and slowly withdraws his arms. He adds a perfunctory little pat to Matthew’s shoulder, “How’s the novel coming?”  
“It’s crap,” Matthew says, though a familiar whisper in the back of his mind contradicts him. He always believes his words are worthless when really it’s only the fault of them being too fresh in his mind. As if he were composing a song, hitting the same note over and over or laying a stone for a great cathedral. The greatness is apparent only if you step away, hear the entire symphony, wait for the words to age and fade from memory so reading them anew is like tasting a delicious and mature wine.   
“Arthur would tell you that’s ‘rubbish’, you know,” Matthew can hear the expression on Alfred’s face though he can’t see him. Blue eyes overcast, biting at his lower lip like he does when he’s not quite sure of himself. His comfort is physical- his presence is what he gives best. He’s not one for words.  
But Matthew is made of words. One would never know it to spend time with him, but that’s because he likes to keep the words for himself. They are precious and he holds them in his mind until it is the right time for them to come out.   
“He would, indeed,” Matthew agrees. His voice sounds slightly foreign to him as it always does after long hours of solitary writing. It sounds wrong somehow, like a barrier being broken. Like a rip between what is happening inside and outside of him. Like turning a light off so everything in his world dims, changes colour.   
He hates it but doesn’t want to let on. In may ways the interruption is welcome. Matthew could feel himself starting to brood , melancholy frosting the edges of his thoughts.  
Matthew coughs once then reaches for another cigarette, lights it. Alfred says nothing but takes the seat at the end of the desk.  
“I know Arthur told you to go on this writing retreat and finish your book,” Alfred is looking down, poking the toe of his boot at something on the floor, “But it’s also supposed to be relaxing. Fun.”  
Matthew, unsure why he’s offended, swivels his chair to face the American, smoke blowing into his eyes, “Writing is fun for me,” he barks. Immediately he regrets it when he sees Alfred flinch. He knows he comes off as angry or petulant when he’s been deep in thought. He doesn’t know how to help it or he would. He’s two people merging back into one and (if he’s completely honest with himself) the one inside- the one only he sees- is the one he likes best. Sometimes he feels he’s doing a disservice to Alfred trying to make this relationship work.   
“I’m sorry, Al-” he extinguishes the cigarette after a single drag, “You’re right. Let’s go snow boarding or skiing or something.”   
Truth be told, even though he’s usually even more into winter activities than his boyfriend, Matthew was so focused on the working aspect of this trip he barely noticed what kind of gear Alfred had brought. He had vague memories of things being thrown into duffle bags and secured to the car as he leafed through his journals and made sure he had enough ink cartridges and nibs.  
Alfred’s mood visibly shifted, blue eyes sparkling as they widened, “I noticed someone left a metal saucer in the mud room. I haven’t been straight-up sledding since I was a kid!”  
Matthew, instantly bombarded with visions of his endearingly oafish partner careening down the slope like a lumpy tea cup and being launched from the saucer straight into a pine tree, sighed, “Alright. Let’s go.”


End file.
